Deliberately, she said nothing about the expected baby and was glad, when she had had Ellen’s reply, that she had thought to conceal her condition. Ellen was not a good hand at letters but even in the few sentences she penned with such apparent difficulty Wilson sensed the misery her own failure to conceive since her miscarriage caused her. The company of her sister, she wrote, might do her the world of good and bring about the miracle she longed for. Telling her mistress this, including what Ellen had also said as to the best dates, Wilson was treated to a look heavy with meaning. ‘It is rare,’ Mrs Browning said as her hair was dressed, ‘for married women to find conceiving difficult. Certainly, it was not so for me and may not prove so for you Wilson.’ There was a pause. Wilson knew she had been presented with the perfect opportunity to tell all but she rejected it. Her mouth full of pins, she merely raised her eyebrows and shrugged her shoulders. ‘Wilson dear,’ Mrs Browning went on, watching her carefully, ‘you must not be too relaxed about these things. It would be very difficult if you became a mother too quickly when all is said and done – very difficult for all of us, situated as we are. I really do not know how we would manage. There is Pen to care for and myself and all things considered we should be greatly inconvenienced, especially while not at home.’ Wilson’s mouth now free she felt an answer was expected of her and knew that if it was not the truth it had better not be a lie. ‘I am only married lately,’ she said in a low voice, ‘but I should like a child, I cannot deny, and would welcome one if God blessed me, unlike my poor sister who He has visited with such an affliction as barrenness.’ ‘But of course, dear,’ her mistress said quickly, ‘I should like to see you with your own child, how could I not, when you have been a second mother to Pen? But it needs deep thought, Wilson, and a great consideration of the circumstances you are in before it can be properly managed, you will agree.’ This was said with the air of making a statement but had the faintest hint of query in it so what Wilson chose to say, as she prepared to leave the room, was ‘What God wills, He wills, ma’am.’ Her heart was beating a little wildly and the child inside her kicked its pleasure at her reply. She had to sit down for a while to recover her equilibrium and ponder on the significance of what had been said.
It occurred to her for the first time (though afterwards Mrs Browning could not believe she had not realised this was inevitable) that she might have to leave the household in order to have her baby. She would have to find somewhere to go to lie up and the only place she had was Ellen’s though Lizzie Treherne was quick to offer shelter. ‘If it comes to it, Lily,’ she said when Wilson went to see her in her new home in Kentish Town, near the fields, ‘you may come here where there is always room for you now we are no longer so crowded.’ Wilson’s eyes filled with tears at the generosity of this proposal but she shook her head. ‘I could not impose, Lizzie, when you have three young children. I must be with my sister since I no longer have a mother.’ She wept a little then steadied herself. Tears, she had been told, were bad for the baby. Gently, Lizzie pressed her to a cup of tea and said, ‘You cannot imagine, Lily, that Mrs Browning will allow you to give birth in her lodgings, now can you dear? In all honesty, she could not be thought to allow it.’
‘No,’ Wilson said, drinking the tea gratefully, ‘no, I did not fancy she would nor would I ask her to let me stay in my own bed for the lying-in, but afterwards I had never thought of being turned off, not then, I really had not. My mistress has spoken strong words on the subject often, she cannot abide those who do not treat servants as friends, and if she is a friend, which I do believe her to be, however foolish it makes me, she will not turn me off in my hour of need.’
‘But Lily, how would you manage, being in need of being looked after yourself? It is not reasonable, dear.’
‘There is Ferdinando, who is a genius with Pen and …’
‘But he cannot dress your mistress or do her hair! What are you thinking of, Lily?’
‘Another girl could be engaged for those intimate services, only for a week or so …’
‘But the expense – you say yourself the talk is all of economy.’
‘They need not pay me for that time. And then, when I am on my feet, another child is nothing when there is Pen already. He longs for a brother or sister, begs and pleads to have one, and my mistress often sighs and wishes she could oblige.’
‘You expect too much, Lily, though it pains me to say it. Your mistress is only as other women of her class and could not countenance such an extraordinary scheme.’
‘Then what shall I do?’ Wilson said, and this time wept without restraint.
She saw, without Lizzie’s help, how foolishly optimistic happiness had made her. She had put her faith in her mistress’s open rejection of the conventional but now saw she had been wrong. She would become, instantly, the moment her confession was made, a troublesome object to be got rid of. And yet she could not quite bring herself to believe all these years and all the closeness they had bred would count for nothing. When she thought back on the many, many times her mistress had whispered her thanks and acknowledged her gratitude and debt, she could not believe that she would not be valued more. Pen would be distraught if she were to disappear and if Ferdinando, his best friend, were to go too, the sheer power of the boy’s screaming distress would have his parents pleading for an amnesty. They were, as Mrs Browning so often fondly remarked, a family within a family and another baby would only, surely, produce rejoicing. By cheering herself thus, Wilson was able to keep going throughout August but then, as the time to go to Ellen’s approached, the fear and doubt returned and she knew she must speak out.
She consciously chose her time with the greatest care. Ferdinando, who liked London no better now a little sun had broken through, finding it dirty and too big, had taken Pen to Regent’s Park. Mr Browning was in New Cross, visiting some old friends of his family, and would then go on to dinner with several literary friends at the Garrick Club. He would not be back until very late. Mrs Browning stayed in bed all morning, relishing the empty apartment and confessing she was all but done in with the socialising to which she had been subjected.
‘Just you and me, Wilson,’ she sighed as her coffee was brought in, ‘quite like the old days, is it not?’
It was exactly the introduction Wilson needed. ‘Yes, ma’am,’ she agreed, plumping up the pillows, ‘like the old days. Do you remember how long and empty the hours seemed? We sat and sighed for some excitement and now it is excitement all day long and too much of it.’
Mrs Browning smiled and nodded. ‘How fortunate we have been, Wilson, for I confess I shudder at the memory for all the peacefulness of it. Who could have told how life would turn out?’
‘Who can tell how it will turn out still?’
‘Ah, we are enigmatic this morning, are we not?’ Mrs Browning said.
‘No, ma’am, only truthful. None of us can tell what is round the next corner, though we may think we can.’
‘True, and I for one am glad these days. Too many dreadful surprises are sprung on us for me to have a taste to know what they shall be. Now sit a moment, Wilson, do, for you have been looking weary yourself dear, and I know Pen has been tiresome and not sleeping with the excitement. Mr Browning said only this morning he feared you and Ferdinando could not have had a good night’s rest since we came and he thought you less blooming than usual.’
‘Thank you, ma’am. I will fetch my sewing and get on with it.’ She went and got Pen’s jacket which she was repairing and sat at the foot of her mistress’s bed and darned. Mrs Browning read The Times and drank her coffee, making some comment from the news every now and again. Is now the time, shall I speak now, Wilson asked herself, but delayed. The sun came into the room in fits and starts and her mistress’s mood grew more receptive every minute. It was she who spoke first again.
‘Do you look forward to your holiday next week, Wilson?’
‘Indeed, ma’am, though I dread it, too, not having seen my sister since my mother and Ma
y were taken.’
‘Of course,’ Mrs Browning’s voice was at its most gentle. ‘That has to be got over.’
‘And I will miss my husband, not having been apart from him yet.’
‘Then, however cruel, I am glad of it for it will bring you back to us all the sooner. We could not do without you, Wilson, and that is a fact. It has been terrible before and would be worse this year if it were not for Ferdinando, who will have a time of it.’
‘I would never wish to stay away, being every bit as attached to Pen as he is to me.’
‘Thank God for it.’
There would never be another moment as perfect. ‘Ma’am,’ Wilson began, hesitantly, clutching the jacket she had been darning close to her, ‘Ma’am?’
‘Yes dear?’ her mistress replied, absent-mindedly, with the rumble of a cough beginning in her chest. She looked so comfortable there, resting on the pillows with her coffee cup perched dangerously on the coverlet and the newspaper sheets spread wide. It seemed a pity to spoil her morning. But Wilson took a deep breath and began again. ‘Ma’am, there is something I must speak to you of.’
‘Mm?’ Mrs Browning murmured.
‘I am afraid you will not be pleased.’
At that, Mrs Browning looked up and smiled, though Wilson could see the smile had no meaning in it, that it was merely a politeness and that the smiler was still far away in her own thoughts.
‘You may be angry, but I cannot help it.’
‘Angry, dear? With you? Now is that likely, is it at all likely? You speak like Pen when he knows he has been naughty. Did you hear him yesterday, Wilson, speaking to his father? “Papa,” he began, “when you love someone velly much it does not matter what they do, does it, for if you love them you love all they do.” I had to struggle not to laugh. And did you hear Robert’s reply? Oh, it was masterly, he said – Wilson, dear, you look distressed.’
‘It is only I have something I must tell you, ma’am.’
‘Why yes, you said so, and here I am prattling on with no thought. Forgive me dear and tell away – I am listening with my whole heart.’
And she was. Wilson could see she now had her mistress’s absolute concentration and was so alarmed by it she found herself wondering if it would not have been better to have told all when her listener was in a vague and dreamy state.
‘I am glad you listen with your heart,’ Wilson said, smiling slightly, ‘for I have need of it – of your heart and its kindness. Ma’am, I am to have a child.’
The response was all she could have hoped for. Mrs Browning smiled and cried, ‘Oh Wilson!’ and held out her arms, sending the coffee cup flying. ‘Now why, dear, did you think I would be angry? Am I so cruel, to greet news such as yours with anger? Am I so selfish?’
‘No, ma’am, no but – how will you manage when I am lying in?’
‘Oh, I shall manage as I have done before and there is always little Rosa you know, even if she is only a kitchen maid – she can be trained to take your place for a while and then we must see what can be done.’
Wilson picked up the coffee cup, fortunately not broken. How to take the next step? ‘Little Rosa is in Florence, ma’am, and I will have the baby before our return, before even Paris, if you are set on wintering there.’
It was out. The change in her mistress’s expression was immediate. ‘Before Paris?’ she echoed. ‘But we go to Paris in a few weeks, in October. Wilson, you cannot be thinking what you are saying, surely.’ Her eyes dropped to Wilson’s stomach then lifted swiftly to scan her face. ‘Before October? Can this be right?’
Stiffly, Wilson stood at the side of the bed, almost at attention. Her face burned. She managed to keep her voice steady as she replied, ‘I do not know precisely when, ma’am, but I last had my regular health in February and so I must suppose October the likeliest month not having seen any medical man.’
Distaste crossed Mrs Browning’s face and she pulled her wrap tightly round her shoulders. ‘I do not want the intimate details, Wilson, spare me such things, please.’ There was a tense pause and then suddenly she got out of bed and walked towards the window. With her back to Wilson, she said, ‘I thought there was perfect trust between us. I have boasted of it. I have to your face congratulated you on your honesty. And now to find such deceit, of every sort. I cannot believe it. Well, you had better get yourself gone to your sister’s for you will be no use here.’ Almost immediately the harsh words were spoken she turned round. Wilson, struggling to keep her composure, was shocked to see tears running down her mistress’s white, set face, tears she must suppose of regret and betrayal, her betrayal. ‘Ma’am,’ she said, ‘ma’am, it was not possible to take you into our confidence for you would have been obliged to dismiss us and then where would we have been, cast out on the streets of Florence?’
‘And did you not think of that before practising your deceit?’
‘Indeed I did. I have had to think of how to earn my living since I was a child and the loss of employment terrifies me as you well know, ma’am. There was no wrong …’
‘No wrong? And you a Christian, Wilson? You speak of there being no wrong? It was all wrong, all of it, from start to finish. You gave in to carnal desires without thought of it being right or wrong and you did so under our roof while in a position of some trust.’
‘I beg your pardon, ma’am, but that trust has been sacred to me if you mean the care of your child.’
She began to weep, unable any longer to maintain the dignity she had striven for, and then to shiver so that she had to clutch at the bedpost. No longer wishing to look at her mistress, no longer able to endure her look of fury and even disgust, she stared at the swirling reds and browns of the carpet and wondered how she could get out of the room before she collapsed completely. Not until her mistress put out a hand to touch her did she realise she had crossed the room and that her voice, if not kind, was considerate. ‘Sit down, Wilson, rest a moment. I have no wish to quarrel. You will understand this has been a shock to me and I may have said things I would not wish to have said. I must speak to my husband, I must think more on what you have told me but it is not my intention to hurt you. Go now and lie down. You look wretched and I am the cause of it, I suppose.’
If it had not been for the ‘I suppose’ Wilson thought how consoled she would have felt but those last two words were spoken with something akin to contempt. They made it plain that her mistress found her a nuisance and resented it. She was now a trouble and in a flash it seemed that the years and years during which she had been a support had vanished. That brief moment when Mrs Browning had smiled upon her announcement had been so sweet – her own heart had leapt at the promise of the understanding and sympathy and she had even, in that short time-span, heard herself telling Lizzie triumphantly that she had been wrong to predict she would be treated as any maid-servant. Lying on her bed, she tried hard to put herself in her mistress’s position, to feel cheated and tricked, but she could not. She, as a married woman who loved and was attracted to her husband, would have understood and been compassionate. As to the inconvenience, it could always be got round, should a mistress so desire it. But clearly she was not going to desire it and had implied there was no obligation that she should. All that comforted her, as she lay there silently, was the knowledge that she was still glad – glad to love Ferdinando, glad to have married, glad even that she had given herself to him when she needed and wanted to and had not insisted on marriage and respectability first. They had some money saved and with judicious handling it would tide them over this crisis.
Throughout the rest of that now unpleasantly long and empty day Wilson appeared punctually to perform her duties. No words beyond the necessary were exchanged. She knew her red eyes showed she had cried for hours but did not care who saw them. There was at least the relief, now the truth was known, of letting her seams out further and undoing the fasteners half way down her back. She saw her mistress looking and estimating and instead of hunching herself in shame she carried her
self proudly. When the baby inside her kicked she did not grit her teeth and ignore the sharp movement as she had done up to now, but instead stood still and held the place where she felt the kick. This did not please her mistress, who frowned and said, ‘I would ask you not to tell Penini as yet, if you please, Wilson. It will be most disturbing and I wish to plan how it can be done most harmlessly with my husband.’ Wilson inclined her head in assent but seethed. Disturbing, indeed. Why, Pen would be ecstatic and his mother knew it.
Ferdinando was relieved their secret was out and that he could begin to take some pride in his approaching fatherhood, but she cautioned him to be restrained. It was impossible to know which way the wind would blow until Mr Browning had been told and he as well as his wife had reacted to the news. Wilson slept fitfully that night and was up early, anticipating the summons which came after breakfast. Ferdinando was not summoned. He was sent out once more with Pen and it was only the three of them in the rather small and dismal drawing room of the rented apartment. She saw at once that any hopes of Mr Browning being more indulgent than his wife were going to be unfulfilled, but his first words were tolerant enough.
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